


Sunshine on the Track

by mintscouting



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintscouting/pseuds/mintscouting
Summary: The heat of an approaching summer has affected all the students succumbed to it while in gym, Pete Thelman being the most affected. The coach, appointed to the track runs, which should be illegal in such a heat, Pete believes, is proving to be an immovable force. It's a good thing Stan Marsh is the one pleasant, sunny thing outside.





	Sunshine on the Track

The sun, unbearable and suffocating, buffeted down upon Pete in his sweater he insisted on wearing that particular day. Or every day, not considering the weather at any point, plus his black jeans. It would be to “conformist" of him to consider anything other than himself, of course. Henrietta, Firkle and Michael all sat together on the tall, uncomfortably cheap bleachers placed around the track course. Their eyes were uninterestedly fixed on the sweating, bumbling children running across it in the calamitous heat while the gym teacher appointed to them shouted “words of encouragement”. For example, some choice words of hers would be, “You can do better than that!” and “My mother with a luxating patella could outrun you lot!”. Those are only a fraction of her options, though. 

Flipping the hair off of his face, Pete could feel formations of sweat building up on his forehead, so he swiped his marked face with the side of his sleeve. He hated the heat with tenfold the amount of passion the sun showed in wanting to melt him, and he wished he could glare at it to show such disapproval. But such was not his luck, and he chose to raise his book over his head to prevent its unending staring. 

“Oh,” began Michael. “Here comes prep boy.” He was referring to Stan Marsh, a doofy, over the top boy in his grade. They had hung out at his lowest of lows; when he was dumped by Wendy Testaburger for a boy that hung out with Craig. He didn't know the tall, black boy’s name, but he seemed decent enough. Uhm, for a lame prep anyway. The boisterous and passionate coach, though general would be a more accurate term for the woman, made a comment to Stan about something how her grandma could run laps around him in the time it took him one, and in response he said nothing but defeatedly raised his arms in slight offense.

Sitting forward in his spot on the sunburnt bench, Pete puts his hands around his mouth and yelled to the raven haired boy, whom he noticed managed to not wear his beanie for a moment, “Yeah, Stan!” He didn't wanna say anything more than the simple “insulting" comment, feeling it was satisfactory enough for now. 

However, it seemed the ten foot beefcake in khakis didn't seem it was at all helpful, and turned all the way around towards him, gazing against the sun to look at his pasty skin. She was so orc-like in nature and stature that it came as no surprise to Pete that she could resist the sun’s terminating gaze on her soul. Perhaps the roles were switched in that regard.

“Thelman!” she boomed. “Yes..?” he half-heartedly responded, the other goths passively looking at her as well. But despite his apathetic approach, he was trying to swallow the lump forming in his throat. Confrontation was his weak soul’s worst enemy, of course. 

 

“I thought you had a sore throat?” she said suggestively. Oh, gods, she knew. ‘Hold steady, Thelman.’ he thought. “Yeah, what's your point.” he countered, the waver in his voice apparent to everyone on the school grounds, maybe even the world. He was not holding steady. 

“It doesn't sound very sore to me,” she said. “I think you should come down and join Marsh for a little run.” That unstoppable force of a woman ascended the stairs of the bleachers, every step booming, creaking, groaning in horror. His lie wasn't holding steady either. In the midst of this terror of events, Pete noticed Stan, and a few collective others because why wouldn't they want to witness his end, stopped to gaze upon the scene unfolding. 

“I u-uh, uhm, I can't-,” he stuttered out, shameful embarrassment crawling its way up those horribly pale cheeks of his. His brown eyes were deer like in front of the teacher. God, he couldn't escape this shame, it ate up his stomach and throat. Don't cry, He thought to himself. This is bad enough, don't cry in front of the other kids and my friends, just don't. The other goths, bless them, were backing him up, but he was already caught in the snare. The lady was bulky and booming, but she was no idiot. He was too socially inept to properly lie or counter anyone who caught him, he wasn't Henrietta or Firkle. Michael would just simply look at the offender and they would know he wasn't worth the trouble. But Pete wasn't them. He just wasn't. 

“Come on, kid, we have fifteen minutes left anyway,” he heard a deeper voice shout from down below the bleachers. It revealed the owner, who jumped up and partially climbed the rails to properly talk to Pete. It was beanie-boy himself! 

“Tell you what, Thelman,” After a pause, coach said. Though it was more of a yell, but Pete thinks that's just her overwhelming voice at it's normal tone. “If you run the entirety of the last bit of the bell, and no slacking like I know you love to do, then I'll consider not writing you up for insubordination. How's that sound?” Stan had dropped down and backed onto the track again, but still waited for him, as if was entirely too impossible for him to resist this agreement. 

But it was. And so, Pete Thelman, for the first time in the semester (four months into it) got up, set down his book, took off his sweater to show his t-shirt, and descended the stairs down to the track, followed by an actual planet of a coach. Stan was absolutely beaming with pride and giddiness, which Pete couldn't help but reciprocate in his own way; a simple and small, sideways smirk and his eyebrows crinkling in amusement. 

Stan placed a hand on his back, pushily encouraging him along to run by his side. “Yeah, yeah, I'm trying.” Pete said, laughing at his uppity nature. He's inwardly happy at Stan’s improvement in his mood, reminded of how downcast the raven haired boy was in his days of poetry and smoking. Pete hoped he stopped smoking, and his drinking too. He didn't want to see his chipper companion end up like so many other adults in his life. He wouldn't miss the sunshine in the sky, suffocating and blinding, but he would miss the one talking away by his side. 

Pete thinks he's blinding too, but he still can't help but stare.


End file.
